G.P. Porter

At the end of the bar, there sat an irritating little man. He sat there and ordered one Bud in a can. It took him all night just to drink that one beer. On his face, he was wearing a queer little leer. I could tell he was giving the waitress the creeps, as he stared at her breasts and grinned through stained teeth. He talked to himself in a low monotone. The lights were on, but there was nobody home. The bartender's discomfort was beginning to show, as the night wore on and he made no move to go. We all drew a heavy sigh of relief, when he grabbed up his coat and went back to the streets